


All I Want

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8846761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: Written for Watson's Woes Advent 2016.  A little bit of happily ever after for everyone. Because it's Christmas. Set several years after Series 4.





	

John buys the plane tickets and thenhe tells him. Sherlock goes narrow-eyed and cranky, but he's always a little bit cranky, so no surprise there. He packs, though, and when John sees him slipping brightly coloured, badly-wrapped Christmas presents into his suitcase, he stops folding his own jumpers and trousers and watches, grinning just a little bit in the dim light of their bedroom.

Sherlock looks up at him and scowls. "What?"

"Nothing.” His grin gets wider and Sherlock’s scowl gets deeper, but John wisely stays silent. It has taken a few years, but he’s finally mastered the fine art of knowing when to shut it. Sherlock, not so much.

 

It’s a snowy Christmas Eve in Inverness when they arrive. Harry picks them up at the airport and doesn’t complain that their plane is three hours late and they’ve missed the dinner she spent all day preparing.  She’s pregnant again, almost six months, and it looks good on her. When she meets them at baggage claim, she looks beautiful, and John has to swallow before he leans in and kisses her cheek, pulling her into a rough hug. He asks how Clara is and she laughs. “Busy. Tired. Happy about the baby.” She tilts her head to grin at Sherlock and John’s glad they agreed to come.

The roads are slick with new snow but if Harry’s nervous, she doesn’t let on. She talks happily about the twins and Clara and the new baby ( _a boy, not to be named Sherlock, so don’t even ask_ ) and warns them not to talk politics or the EU and especially not the results of the last Scottish referendum with Clara’s parents during Christmas dinner. John laughs and reminds Harry that Sherlock cares nothing about any of those things, so it should be safe.

“I promised to behave so I will,” Sherlock says. “It’s my Christmas present to John,” he whispers, loud enough for John to hear.

“Bollocks,” John says from the back seat. “Don’t act like you’re not thrilled to miss Christmas dinner with Mycroft. I’ve done you a favour.”

Harry laughs. “We’ll see about that. The twins managed to pull down the Christmas tree last night and the turkey’s still frozen and Clara’s mother insists on telling her friends I’m her daughter’s roommate, not her wife, so Lord knows what she’ll make of you two.”

John answers that he’s quite sure it’s all going to be marvelous. Sherlock’s fingers tap out S-O-S in Morse code against the frosted window.

 

The house – new to Clara and Harry and old by any other standard – is large and comfortable and lit up like, well, a Christmas tree. Sherlock and John stand in the driveway and stare for a moment.

“I know it’s rather over the top,” Harry says. “But the twins love it. I suspect they’ve watched _Frozen_ too many times.”

Inside, after hugs all round, Harry collapses into an armchair by the fireplace and Clara leads them upstairs to the guest room. The room is small and narrow but the bed is big enough for both of them and it’s covered with a faded patchwork quilt John recognises from his childhood. He pauses at the door and asks Clara, “How is Harry? Really?” They both know he means “Is she coping?” Harry hasn’t had a drink in almost five years – not since before the twins came along – but the question’s always there, simmering beneath the surface of things. Sherlock throws John a disapproving look – it’s one of the few things he and Harry have always had in common – living down past sins.

“She’s good, John,” and squeezes his hand. “Really. If you must worry about something, worry about that one.” She lifts her chin towards Sherlock. “He’s bound to say something inappropriate eventually.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m not completely uncivilised.”

John waits until Clara’s gone and they've put the bags down before crowding Sherlock against the wall and kissing him breathless. Sherlock’s hand comes up to draw him closer, and John slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock is flushed when they pull apart. "What was that for?" he demands, and all John can do is shrug, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face. “It’s Christmas.” 

They unpack and head downstairs for heated-up leftovers of the dinner they missed. Harry tries to sit with them while they eat, but it’s past midnight and she’s been up since before forever and she yawns and says “Oh, fuck it.” She rubs her belly, “The boy and I need some sleep. I’m off.” She kisses them both on the cheek, “See you in the morning. Merry Christmas.”

 

Later in bed, when the silence between them stretches into minutes, Sherlock asks, “Everything all right, John?” He says things like that now, not often, but often enough to remind John that he’s paying attention.

John nods - he is all right, he's more than all right. He's happy, which is surprising, since there are too many people in the house and the children will probably wake them up too early tomorrow and Sherlock will pout that there is no wine with dinner and no brandy afterwards. But he's filled to the brim with a sort of deep contentment, and he whispers to Sherlock, "Thank you for this."

Sherlock’s face gets a sort of "ah" expression and he smiles softly. "It's family, John."

"Come here," John murmurs, and Sherlock turns toward him, wrapping one hand around the back of John’s neck and kisses him softly. John leans up on an elbow, tilting his head, deepening the kiss. He runs his hand down the length of Sherlock’s body as he pulls the covers up over both of them. He falls asleep with his hand on the curve of Sherlock’s hip.

John wakes early and stares up at the ceiling he can't quite see in the dark, and thinks about the day ahead. Breakfast first, then he has to pick up Sherlock’s present in town.  He’s found an early edition of John Hooke’s _Micrographia_ online. It’ll be beans and toast for several months, but worth it to see the look on Sherlock’s face.

Sometimes John is shocked by how far they’ve come. There were many days, weeks, even months, when he never thought they’d get through it. After Moriarty returned and everything that happened after . . .  Sherlock had been like the walking wounded, trying to find the place where he could finally understand what followed wasn’t his fault.

Sherlock opens one eye, murmurs something unintelligible and sighs, curling into John’s touch. Like always, John feels a hot coil of anticipation tighten deep in his belly. In the beginning, they couldn’t be bothered with a bed. The slow striptease of seduction hadn’t been necessary – they’d done it in the shower, in the back seat of cabs and on the kitchen floor. They’d joked about lost buttons and broken shoelaces and talked about swearing off zippers entirely.

But that was before Moriarty. Before Mary. Before the baby that never was. Before . . .

Now they take things slower, not because they have to, but because they can.

"Morning," Sherlock rasps, his voice rough with sleep. He turns towards John and leaves a trail of wet kisses along his collarbone, “Do we have time?”

John nuzzles Sherlock’s earlobe and whispers, "Maybe later tonight, eh?"

“So you believe we’ll survive Christmas? I wish I shared your optimism.”

“We’ve been through worse.”

“But children, John. There will be small children.” He sighs. The sigh of a wise man surrounded by fools.

“And turkey. And shortbread biscuits,” John counters.

“And trifle. I don’t believe in trifle.”

“And roasted parsnips. The ones you like. I sent Harry the recipe.”

“If your sister insists on inflicting her children and their pedestrian desserts on us, there needs to be wine.”

“No wine. And no whining.”

Sherlock groans and John smiles because he knows it will all be fine. Because they _are_ fine. Finally.

 

Today they will eat breakfast together and exchange gifts.  In the afternoon, three-year-old Hanna will climb onto Sherlock’s lap and he’ll sing softly in her ear and hold her while she naps. When Harry offers to take her to her bed, Sherlock will shake his head and mouth “we’re fine.”

Later, they’ll pull apart Christmas crackers and wear crowns made of tissue paper while they eat turkey and potatoes and roasted parsnips and something Clara saw on an American cooking show called “green bean casserole.” Only she can’t find tinned green beans, so it will be mushy peas made into something even mushier. It will not be a success.

After dinner, John will take Sherlock’s hand and they’ll venture out into the snow and walk the half-mile down the road to the local pub. It’s only then that Sherlock will reach into the pocket of his coat and hand John a small gift-wrapped box.

John will look down at the box and up at Sherlock.

And when Sherlock asks, John will find he’s lost any ability to speak so he’ll nod and Sherlock will kiss him long and slow like they have all the time in the world.

Because they do.


End file.
